


Obviously Blue

by StarlightLion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't Judge Me, Gen, John's Ghost Mary is awesome, The narrative voice is weird, fluff sort of, i dunno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 17:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightLion/pseuds/StarlightLion
Summary: It was obvious to John. It was more obvious to Mary. She still thinks John should tell him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't judge me. This is my first real return to fan fiction in years, although I'm hoping I can get my shit together enough to work on an idea I have in my head. I know it's terrible, and the narrative voice is all over the place and disjointed - I don't even know what the perspective is supposed to be. But I figured I should just post stuff I write for the sake of not hiding everything that isn't COMPLETELY PERFECT because I sort of do that.  
> Anyway. Ignore that.  
> Mostly stream of consciousness really. I'm still angry about Mary.
> 
> Thank you ^.^

It was obvious to John Watson.

He’d known it for years. It was _obvious_ \- like looking up and noticing the sky was blue. _(Sherlock always argues that the sky isn’t blue, of course, something about the length of light waves across the spectrum or some such nonsense. All you have to do is use your bloody eyes. Sky: blue)._

Maybe that was why Sherlock hadn’t seen it all this time. In the grand scheme of things, John had always wondered whether it was a mere stroke of luck, or if Sherlock sometimes didn’t realise what he deleted from his mind. Either way, he’d always thought it best that Sherlock didn’t know. It was _obvious_ , but it was the kind of mundane obvious that Sherlock never failed to ignore. John had seen him spend a good four and a half minutes once going through all the possibilities of sequences for a pin code, based on chemistry and length of use and psychology and the estimated age of the safe owner. It had taken John that long to get Sherlock to _shut up_ for the six seconds necessary to point out that Sherlock’s deductions - rapidfire and impressive as always - were entirely baseless. The light had been green.

The safe had been open.

…

It was those sorts of banal obviousalities that Sherlock could never seem to get his head around. The safe was open. The sky was blue. Sherlock Holmes was in love with John Watson. People _adored_ the hat.

Things like that.

…

It was obvious to John Watson. It hadn’t been, not at first, but it _had_ been immediate. Now, armed with the years of knowing him, John could recall the differences in how Sherlock had treated him. By all human standards, it hadn’t been _polite_ of course, but then John had seen how Sherlock addressed other people.

Cutting remarks and toxic barbs when Sherlock was angry (or craving) aside, John didn’t get spoken down to like Sherlock did most. _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ It had been curiosity; no credence given to personal boundaries of course, but it had _only_ been curiosity. Sherlock hadn’t jumped on his observations, and in fact John hadn’t been given the run down until he’d pushed for it. Sherlock didn’t like to hold back - Sherlock liked _attention;_  praise. Craved it. Enough so that he didn’t care how it made the subjects of his deductions feel, though usually he did know.

Bit different when it came to his friends. Sherlock’s friends weren’t the stupid masses, couldn’t be, he couldn’t possibly let himself be _friends_ with such idiots. So Sherlock liked to reassure himself. It was almost flattering, sometimes, but then Sherlock forgot that his friends _were_ just idiots. It was very hard, sometimes, to remember that Sherlock thought he was helping and not asking to be punched.

…

But not John. Oh, Sherlock dressed him down in half a second like he did everyone else, but he didn’t weaponise the information. It wasn’t just friendship; Sherlock was friends with Greg and Molly, and he regularly weaponised his deductions against them. True, it was _usually_ an attempt to be helpful, but it was still psychological assault.

Not John.

…

John Watson had known for years that Sherlock loved him. _(Of course, Sherlock readily admits that he loves me, even if it is with his typical sneer of_ sentiment,  _but he also loves Molly, and Greg, and Mrs. Hudson and… Mary… Sherlock has no idea he’s in love with John Watson)._

But it was obvious to John Watson.

…

The other thing was obvious to him too. It hadn’t been, at first. Everyone else had seen it, just like John had seen Sherlock’s love for him, but not John. Sometimes it made him feel just as dumb as Sherlock was, that he hadn’t seen it. Maybe it was the same thing; maybe he just hadn’t wanted to.

In the end - embarrassingly enough - it was Irene Adler who’d finally convinced him. It hadn’t been the blatant insinuation that they were a couple, not after so many. It hadn’t been her refusal to take his denial - _Yes you are_ \- it hadn’t even been the kinship she’d offered, or the acknowledgement that he probably wasn’t gay.

_(I’m not. For the record)._

It had taken months for her to convince him, and she hadn’t even been there. In the end, what had convinced him was that goddamned text alert. _Ahhh._ He hadn’t quite been able to believe it, both the audacity - even from her - or that Sherlock had never changed it.

Actually, he’d figured that out the moment he’d realised the other thing. John wasn’t so bothered by the sound because he was _embarrassed_ \- quite the opposite. It had nothing to do with propriety. He was jealous.

God, it sounded stupid even in his head.

Of course, Sherlock had observed the jealousy. It might have been an unconscious deduction; he made plenty of those. Sometimes his mind worked faster than he could keep up with. But the sound made John jealous, so of course Sherlock kept it. He was in love with John, he coveted the jealousy. Why wouldn’t he?

But then, John had been forced to accept reality. There was only one reason he would be so jealous over something so petty.

John was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

 _(Still not gay. Sherlock Holmes is_ something else. _The man who can ensnare straight men and gay women alike)._

…

 _(Well_ of course _he can. Sherlock is incredible. Shut up)._

Mary had known. God, Mary had known the second John had opened his mouth. She’d never been jealous. Mary had all but encouraged it.

It hadn’t been something they’d ever discussed. How could they have? John could hardly ask his girlfriend to discuss his romantic feelings for his dead best friend.

That… Honestly, no, that sounded just as bad in his head.

Besides, it wasn’t uncommon for husbands or wives to also love someone deceased. Just because that person was usually a lover didn’t invalidate the logic. _(Oh god, I’m starting to sound like Sherlock even in my own head)._ But the logic had never mattered, he’d always felt guilty about it. And Mary hadn’t cared, Mary had known he loved Sherlock and still trusted that he loved her too.

_(God, I do. I love Mary so much)._

And then Sherlock hadn’t been dead.

…

He’d expected Mary to have a problem with it then, when John’s feelings were a danger, because Sherlock was alive. And Sherlock loved him back - because of course she’d known that too, known the moment she’d met him. Deduced it just from watching Sherlock watch John.

_(Goddammit. I really do have a type, don’t I?)_

But Mary had loved it. She’d always believed John was a good person. Faithful, trustworthy. Loyal. She’d believed that of him to the ends of the earth - she’d believed it, even when it hadn’t been true. Mary had believed with her whole heart that John wouldn’t act on the attachment between him and Sherlock, even if it hadn’t involved trying to convince Sherlock of its validity first. _(Sometimes, I wonder if she would have even been upset, if I had. She’d probably have found it hilarious)._

…

_(God, I miss Mary)._

…

She’d believed it of Sherlock too. Maybe that was part of why John had loved her so damn much. Not only was she never upset when John rambled about Sherlock - or slipped up and drank too much and cried about him, and spent hours at night wandering the streets, looking for trouble, or disappeared without warning to shout at his grave - not only, but she believed in Sherlock Holmes.

John could count on one hand the number of people who believed in Sherlock Holmes. Greg did, before John had even met him, but Greg was realistic. Too realistic to take the leaps of faith Mary had. Molly did, even now, even though Sherlock had destroyed her - but Molly was as mercurial as he was, and belief would never be enough to mend what was broken between them.

In some ways, Mycroft did. _(Mycroft)._ Mycroft believed in his brother a thousand ways that other people didn’t, but his beliefs were inflexible, concrete. There was no room for the reality of Sherlock’s character in Mycroft’s beliefs. _(Perhaps now, that would change. I don’t know how to feel about Mycroft anymore. It would take work, and time - and probably therapy - to figure it out)._

John did. John believed in Sherlock whole-heartedly. John believed in Sherlock. _(Just one more miracle. Please. Always one more miracle)._

Mary had. Mary had believed in Sherlock from the moment John had opened his mouth about him. Once, when he’d been slightly less than sober, he’d gotten halfway through an anecdote that he knew Mary had already read about on his blog, and stopped. Blinked at her a few times. Apologised profusely. He’d been talking to his wife about his best friend like they were the other way around. Sherlock had been dead, he didn’t need to go on and on about it like some schoolboy with a first crush. But Mary had simply shushed him, kissed him gently, and told him to finish the story. It was exciting. She liked how John was when he talked about Sherlock.

Animated. Alive. _(The word ‘glow’ was not used. Don’t question me)._ She’d given him that wicked little grin and taken his glass for her own and listened in rapt attention. Sherlock had been dead, and she’d believed in him. His resurrection had only made her gleeful.

…

Oh, but she’d been masterful. Alive, Mary had been able to manipulate both of them constantly, for the better, side by side. _(Running him my arse)._ It hadn’t stopped just because she was dead. Mary believed in John the same way she believed in Sherlock. She’d known her death would break him.

Which ‘him’ didn’t really matter.

The setup had been incredible. Make Sherlock believe he was saving John - John, who he’d do anything for, who he tolerated sentiment and nonsense for, who he even sometimes did the shopping for - by putting himself into the situation where John had to save him. Sherlock hadn’t even hesitated. _(Was it because he really wouldn’t hesitate for me? Sometimes I wonder if he just doesn’t care that much about his own life)._ ~~_(It’s probably both)._ ~~

In all that scheming, all the preparation Mary had done, all the eventualities… John had been the weak link. The pitfall that had nearly lost everything, cost Sherlock his life (for real), and left John…

Rosie didn’t deserve to be orphaned.

…

And thank the lord for Mary Watson. John hadn’t been nearly the man she had believed him to be. He was selfish. He was disloyal. John Watson was an average to failing father, and he drank too much, too often. He was terrified, always. _(Rosie deserves better. I can’t be the father to her that mine was to Harry)._ ~~_(You won’t)._~~ He’d nearly abandoned Sherlock to his fate.

But for Mary Watson. She’d believed in John the way that other people believed in Sherlock. The way John believed in Sherlock. She’d believed John was better, would be better, had been better.

_(I will be better)._

~~_(I know)._ ~~

…

…

…

It was obvious to John Watson. It was obvious to _Rosie_ . “Dad” had been learned and John had been overjoyed. And then it had been promptly applied to Sherlock. Rosie wasn’t in the business of taking anybody’s shit. _(She’s so like you, Mary)._

John watched them, now. Sherlock, trying to take notes on his latest experiment. Something to do with the decay rate of paint on children’s toys. Harmless enough. A lot of his experiments lately had to do with children’s toys. Oddly enough, Sherlock had cleaned out and replaced Rosie’s toys four times so far. _(Baffling. No idea why he’s doing that. None at all). ~~(~~ _ ~~_Hey. Sarcasm)._ ~~

‘Trying’ being the operative word. With Rosie bouncing on one knee, his scribbles had to be illegible even to him; she was trying to catch the back of his pen, and causing great black lines across the page whenever she succeeded. Sherlock wasn’t even angry. Each time got a little quirk of his mouth, accompanied with a mini lecture on why she should be helping him, not hindering.

_(God, she’s going to be raised by Sherlock. Our daughter is going to be a menace when she grows up)._

~~_(_ _She’s going to piss off Mycroft gloriously)._ ~~

John could never decide if it was possible or not. For him to love Sherlock more. It didn’t really seem to matter - every little reminder of how much Sherlock loved Rosie, for no real reason, for no logical reason, just because she was John’s and Mary’s and she mattered, every time he took in the garbled noises of a one year old and nodded thoughtfully and responded like she’d made an interesting observation - he did.

Rosie had gotten hold of the pen again. This time, Sherlock let her have it. “John, pass me a pen.” As if John was his delivery boy. Complete expectation to be accommodated.

John got up, scrounged a pen from his desk, and walked it over to him.

…

_(Goddammit)._

Imperiously, Rosie pointed at one of the small wooden bees laid out on the table - all painted bright cheerful yellows, splashed with black and red and - in one bizarre case - lilac - and gave a single, nonsense, syllable.

“John, are you aware your daughter is a genius? Remarkable. Quite remarkable.” A note, quickly scribbled, before Rosie dropped her trophy and made a grab for the new pen. “Although, Rosamund, you did miss the-”

“Okay, Sherlock. Enough getting the infant to make your deductions for you. Give her here.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Sherlock had yet to say it aloud, that he loved Rosie - to her or anyone else. John rather suspected it hadn’t actually crossed his mind in any quantifiable fashion. But he’d seen him move like lightning when he thought she was hurt. It was the same viciousness he’d shown when Mrs. Hudson had been hurt.

Rosie was handed up, the pens laid by the notebook, and Sherlock rose after her to stretch out his legs. She was getting quite heavy. Having not moved her from her perch in over an hour, his leg must be thoroughly dead.

~~_(You should tell him)._ ~~

Some days - rarely, but when Mary was in the front of his thoughts - John wondered if Mary had relied on the fact he loved Sherlock. Or that Sherlock loved him. It must have been so awkward, their wedding, for all the guests who had eyes. Who’d been able to see the obvious.

At least John was obvious to everyone. It would have been equally obvious how much he loved Mary.

“Tell me you didn’t store your paint samples in the fridge, Sherlock.”

The response took a minute, while Sherlock glanced at him and started clearing the toys to one half of the table.

“Of course I did. The samples fridge.”

 _(Fuck. I do love him)._ The samples fridge was a new addition; 221B Baker Street had been thoroughly baby-proofed, even if John didn’t live there. Anymore. At the moment. Yet.

Fuck.

~~_(Tell him. He’ll never see it until you do)._ ~~

“Good. That’s good.” As long as he wasn’t storing his experiments in the food fridge. Thank god that Sherlock loved Rosie. Her safety was the only reason Sherlock had bothered to finally get a seperate fridge for his spare parts. Rosie cooed and tugged on John’s hair. Hungry again.

Food fridge.

…

It was obvious to John Watson. It was even more obvious to Mary Watson - even if it was her ghost. After all, more than anything she’d wanted John to be happy.

~~_(Tell him. Go on. Tell him. It’s not cheating, I’m dead. Tell him)._ ~~

_(I will. One day, I will)._

~~_(I’m going to have to tell him myself, aren’t I?)_ ~~

_(You’re dead)._

_…_

_(Mary, you’re dead, you can’t tell him)._

_…_

_(That’s not a plea, you literally can’t. You can’t tell anyone anything)._

_…_

_(Mary, you’re dead)._

_..._

_(Don’t even think about it)._

_…_

~~_(Or what?)_ ~~


End file.
